


Overheard

by Barkour



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-03-13 09:59:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13568217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Barkour/pseuds/Barkour
Summary: Lord Starscream and the Cityspeaker have a difference of opinion at a very loud volume. Rattrap reads the gossip columns.





	Overheard

**Author's Note:**

> I've only read the Last City TPB, so please: no spoilers.

Some days Rattrap felt like a glorified secretary. Better a secretary than a punching bag, anyway, even if neither of ‘em offered a whole lot in the way of dignity. So there he was in the external office looking up gossip on the ‘net while Starscream met with an interior decorator about his latest and greatest rebuild.

Windblade walked in. She’d a particular way of walking that looked like stillness. Her pedes tap-tapped steadily as she cut forward from the elevator.

“Is Starscream in his office?”

A sudden shouting started. The office was doubly sound-proofed, but there was no stopping those vocals from stripping paint. 

Rattrap dismissed an article titled _MEGATRON GHOST WRITER OF ‘FIFTY HEX CODES OF GREY’ – ONE PROFESSOR’S DUBIOUS CLAIM_ to move on to the real good stuff, _WHO’S_ (sic) _EXHAUST PORTS? CELEBRITY CHASSIS REVEAL!_

“Yeah, the boss is in. Might wanna dampen your audials,” he added. Damn, just another old publicity shot of Blurr.

Windblade muttered something under her breath and keyed the door open. Too late it occurred to Rattrap he maybe shouldn’t have let her in.

“Hey, wait a chit, he’s already with somebody—”

A blast of sound stunned him. Everyone was shouting. Rattrap hastily deadened his sensors and made for the door. Like hell he was missing this.

“What business could you _possibly_ think so important, _delegate_?” 

Rattrap had to give it to the boss. He’d never known someone could hiss at that volume before.

Windblade’s folded wings flexed and shuffled. “Is this why you cancelled the delegates’ forum _again_?” She gestured with an uplifted palm to the color swatches marked on the screens ringing the office. “To preen?”

“Spare me the provincial grandstanding,” Starscream snipped. “The forum is a fine idea, yes, for a later date—”

“You are deliberately undermining the negotiations!”

“Oh?” Starscream laid the fingers of his right hand on his chest armor. “Forgive me, I thought _I_ was the chosen ruler of Cybertron.”

“I’ll go,” said the decorator uneasily. He reached for his tablet. 

Starscream and Windblade both turned on him.

“You’ll stay!”

“You’ll leave!”

The decorator said, “I’ve tabulated a few popular color combinations,” and sidled quickly toward the door. He about broke the sound barrier bolting for the elevator.

If he was worried Starscream’s tremendous spite would fall on him, he needn’t fear: all of Starscream’s attention had re-centered unerringly on Windblade, her white-painted face made not stark but soft beneath the tactical lighting of the office. Starscream had begun to pace, abortive and jaggy steps in either direction. His optics remained fixed on her.

“You have no authority in my office!”

Windblade had mastered some of her own temper, though it flashed in her bright eyes as she spoke.

“Lord Starscream—”

Normally Starscream looked smug at wringing such a title from someone who disliked him, which, to be fair, was nearly the entire population of the known universe. Now he looked as if Windblade had stuck slag-laced energon up his tail pipes. Rattrap wished he had salted energon poppers to snack on while they took swings at each other.

Windblade went on in that purposefully serene way. 

“We both agreed the forums would be ideal for strengthening alliances between all the Titan colonies.”

“Yes, yes, your idea was very nice,” said Starscream, “but it lacks teeth.”

“We can’t become—” She struggled a moment, muttering something in the Camien dialect that Rattrap couldn’t translate. Clearly neither could Starscream, who frowned. “Friends without sitting down and talking with each other about who we are.”

Starscream smiled. It was unpleasant as smiles went though not so unpleasant as it might have been given Starscream. There was a sort of helpless edge to it as he looked down at Windblade, earnest and firmly set on her pedes with her scarlet wings thrown back and her chin jutted. 

Rattrap promptly forgot all about the gossip mags. This was the real good shit right here. O-ho! he thought. Maybe he ought to shoot an anonymous tip to Circuit and the guys. 

“And while you’re running around trying to matchmake every off-world ‘bot,” Starscream oozed, “who will look after Cybertron’s interests? Who will ensure that, now that we’re all friends again, Velocitron and Eukaris don’t run off hand-in-hand and leave us in the dust? How deeply does Caminus’ feeling run for Cybertron?”

He made a dismissive gesture. His fingers twitched spasmodically. A tightening briefly touched his mouth.

Windblade caught this hand. She clutched it tightly, perhaps unkindly. Starscream ruffled but she only clasped his hand tighter and stepped nearer, all the intensity of the cityspeaker upon her. She’d turned _that_ pit-burnt look on Rattrap once, back when he was trying to interrogate her. It had pissed him off. Starscream’s optics only rounded, the fine mechanics in the red iris clicking and spooling wide.

“If you truly care for Cybertron’s interests,” said Windblade with cutting edge, “then you’ll stop these petty games. Trying to pit everyone else against each other like you’re afraid they’ll band against you, just like you’ve turned against everyone you’ve followed. Maybe if you tried to be honest with them—”

Starscream touched her holding wrist with his other hand. He hadn’t blinked once. Neither, from what Rattrap could see, had Windblade budged. She was as fiercely focused on him as he on her. 

“Would you like to know the difference between us, Windblade? I am honest,” said Starscream. “I’ve never once pretended to be anything other than myself. But you, you think all your sacrificing nobility is _selfless_ , as if making people feel indebted to you through kindness is any less deceptive than appealing to their true natures.”

Oh, hell, were they leaning in towards each other? Rattrap started eyeing his tablet, still running. 

Windblade’s long throat worked. If she wavered she did so imperceptibly, and her finely highlighted visage showed pale and certain.

“You’re treacherous,” she said quietly. “A snake eating Cybertron from the inside out.”

“You’re naïve,” said Starscream, “and stupidly honorable. But it has been a delight, watching you learn.”

He smiled. The smile was hungry. The minute flexion of Windblade’s shoulders, turning back, that was a kind of hunger, same the curling lines of her fingers, tightened about his hand. 

Well, Rattrap could see where this was going. Either she’d rip his throat out and he’d stab her spinal cortex, or they’d make Rattrap wish the office was triply sound-proofed. He stepped carefully away from the door and snagged his tablet. Where the hell was Circuit’s tip line?

**Author's Note:**

> Would Windblade know what snakes are? That's a question for another time.


End file.
